20121
by LabyrinthDweller
Summary: I hate it. I really do. Now all I get is pity, or interest, or fear. The pity is the worst. It makes me feel like a bug, a worthless ant that won’t be stomped out because it’d be pathetic to do so.


_Post SH4, escape ending, yadda, yadda, yadda._

_I hate the word "soon."_

* * *

**20/21**

Eileen watched as her guest and friend Henry Townshend cupped the glass of milk in his hands, tentatively pulling it closer to him. It was to be their last day in their apartment, perhaps one more day longer if the movers couldn't move everything at once. It had been such a long two weeks. It was a week of hell world, then a week of frantically trying to find new apartments. Though neither of them had said it out loud, they both desperately wanted to find apartments close to one another, within the same complex and same floor if it was possible. The past events had made the two strangers extremely attached whether they were attracted to one another or not. A mutual bond of trust had been reached between them and that was the whole of it. However, things were not so mutual between apartments. Within their price range the apartments they found were nearly across the city from one another.

Her pale eyes observed Henry's hands as he tried to keep them from trembling too hard. She had politely invited him over just to spend some time with him before they split off in separate directions. Though she was polite it was more casual than anything else. Eileen had subconsciously started boycotting formal wear and it seemed that Henry would just collapse if he had to dress up for anything. (To heck with that, he was almost collapsing just now.) In all honesty, Eileen just didn't want to say good-bye.

She turned away from him to her sink, exposing her back. The tank-top she wore was cut down far enough so you could clearly see almost all of her hideous scar. The only reason why she wore it today was because she wasn't planning on going out anytime soon, and when she did for her doctor's appointment she'd definitely throw on some other shirt or a light sweater. Without realizing it Henry's eyes looked up to stare, the skin pink and still healing from the cuts. He was fixated and almost hypnotized at how the ruined skin was repairing itself, and how haunting the numbers were. They stood out like a black sheep in a white herd, a constant reminder of the nightmare carved forever into his neighbor's back. He would never forget the first time he saw them, the numbers were still spewing blood, causing him to be deathly afraid that she was drawing her final breaths.

He still remembered how it felt underneath his fingertips—abnormal, like a fissure in the earth that had ruined a perfect landscape. Henry hoped that it felt a lot more healed up since two weeks ago. By some sort of sixth sense he could feel that it hurt her a lot more as a scar than it did as a gaping wound.

As if in response to his thoughts, Eileen had paused in getting a glass of water, her hands straddling the sink as she spoke lowly to him.

"I know what you're staring at, Henry."

The pain of being caught encased his chest like an iron maiden, and he quickly shifted his eyes downward into his milk glass, watching the bubbles float around, blipping out at random. Eileen sighed deeply and sadly.

"I hate it. I really do. Now all I get is pity, or interest, or fear. The pity is the worst. It makes me feel like a bug, a worthless ant that won't be stomped out because it'd be pathetic to do so,"

Henry gave a silent gulp and blinked, afraid to look up. Eileen sighed again, and filled her glass from the tap. She turned around, clasping the glass within both her hands as if she was a small child and the glass would fall if she only held it in one. Walking around the countertop island that Henry was sitting at, she rested the small of her back against it, gazing at the wall. She still had a small limp when she walked; it was getting better every day but it still affected her.

Eileen let out a small grunt as she found her comfort, and soon she let her body relax against the edge of the counter. Her back was facing Henry, though in a more diagonal direction. Henry kept himself occupied with his milk, occasionally sipping it. He didn't dare look up again even if he knew that Eileen wouldn't get raving mad with him.

"I know you weren't looking at me like that, Henry…," she said after a while, swishing the water around in her glass, "I just feel…insecure now,"

Henry glanced up at her, catching a glimpse of a slight profile of her gentle face. She looked sad, depressed even as she stared aimlessly into her water. A silence separated the two of them for what seemed like ages until Eileen once again spoke.

"I…I envy you Henry. After this you're going to go home to a different place and you can forget about all of this craziness. Not me. I'll always have that damn scar to remind me. I can feel that it's not going to go away. He cut it too deep. And…and it'll last the rest of my life. People will stare and they'll pity me, I'll be an ant forever now. Even you Henry…you don't look at me with pity but I bet that…I bet that you do pity me, don't you?"

Henry raised his head, gazing at what little of her face he could see. Eileen turned the rest of her head away from him when she saw his eyes in her peripheral vision. There was something about the aura that just disallowed her to face him right now. Her lips quivered ever so slightly when he responded in his shy underused voice.

"No…I don't pity you." He countered, slightly firm. Eileen rested her forehead in one of her hands in small exasperation.

"Don't lie to me to make me feel better, Henry—,"

"Eileen, no. I don't pity you. I _can't_ pity you." He interrupted, not willing to listen to her heartache when there was nothing to ache about.

Eileen let out a small laugh as if to brush him off, "How does _that_ work?"

Biting his lower lip, Henry frantically searched his mind, trying to find the right explanation for what he just said. He knew the answer was in there, _somewhere_, but it refused to surface itself to him. In lieu of grasping the concept, he failed to respond and ended up feeling like an imbecile.

"…I don't know how it works, it just…does," he finalized, filling his mouth with a gulp of milk so he wouldn't have to speak again. He couldn't see her face, so he didn't know that she had smiled at his response.

Eileen closed her eyes gently and spoke, changing the subject.

"You do…photography for a living, right?" she asked quietly. Henry swallowed, wondering where he would start with that.

"Yeah…I get hired sometimes, but I do more than that…," he drifted, fiddling with his glass.

"Like…what?" she inquired. She herself had always been interested in archeology, though her mother had taught her to hold a fine appreciation for the arts.

"Well uh…Landscapes, mostly. I only do people when I get hired really," Henry mused, watching as the biggest bubble in his cup disappeared with a small blip. The sudden pick-up of the conversation had stirred up some nerves, and he made sure to choose his words carefully. He didn't feel like now would be a nice time to make mistakes.

"Oh really…?" Eileen asked, the interest definitely there in her voice, "What are you favorite pictures to take—of the people, I mean," She had to watch herself as well, listening to Henry talk about his passion was drawing her into a pleasant daydream—his voice and words soothed her more than she imagined.

Henry had to think for a moment. He'd never been asked so much about his work, usually it was just the 'So do you like it?' 'What do you do for hire?' 'Is the pay good?' and so on. Out of everything he ever got hired for his favorite had to be…

"The children. They're also the hardest to take decent pictures of, but when you do it's…," Henry stopped. Finding the right word to describe it was harder than he thought. Eileen let the calm silence sink in before she finished for him.

"Magical…?"

Henry gave a tiny smile, his eyes suddenly going off into the distance. She had no idea how right she was. Eileen leaned her head back and gave a long, dreamy hum. Her hum had calmed Henry's nerves somewhat—for the time being she was happy. Happier than she was a moment ago anyway.

"I'd like to see that someday. Your photos."

Without thinking Henry opened his mouth to offer that he could just run over to his room next door and get them. It was shut quickly though when he remembered everything was packed up and ready for the movers to haul away. Haul away to a different apartment across town, away from Eileen. The truth of the situation suddenly hit Henry and for some reason he felt ashamed. Ashamed of not thinking to do something else for this…last meeting. Something else for Eileen.

Nausea took hold of Henry, and he felt like he shouldn't be allowed to be there anymore. He should've brought something for her, more flowers, or if she liked the idea of his photography so much he should've offered up his prized picture of Toluca Lake that used to hang over his bed. Something, anything for her to keep a memory, a _good_ memory of these past weeks. If all she had to remind herself of this was the scar, things would not turn out well. Henry suddenly felt obliged to provide her with something heartfelt and light. His mind swam. He had next to no time left.

Eileen glanced at the clock and moaned sullenly. The doctor's appointment was scheduled to happen soon, to check on how she was healing up. Henry had known this beforehand but she still felt terrible on how she had to cut this short.

"Henry, I—My doctor's appointment is soon, I hate to—," she stumbled, grimacing.

"It's fine," Henry said quietly. As impolite as it was, he felt like he needed to leave at that very moment. He finished up his milk with a quick swig and rinsed the glass, moving so he could avoid contact with Eileen. The scarred woman began to feel frantic, he was about to leave her, they were about to part their paths and she wasn't ready for this. Sounds started to spit out of her mouth, but no words were formed. She was too frightened, too unprepared. She watched him, her pale eyes darting everywhere. He was moving, moving through her kitchen, moving away, moving so far away and she won't be protected by him anymore. They'll come for her, they'll come for her in her nightmares and she won't be able to sleep because Henry wouldn't be next door anymore.

Fear gripped her, an impossible bolt of iciness that she hadn't experienced since Walter Sullivan had initially attacked her. Knowing Henry and his shy ways, he'd rather not intrude on her home even if she begged him. But she had to try—she'd shame herself to begging on her knees, her arms wrapped around his feet if she had to. And she had to do it quick; he was almost at the door.

"Henry, wait—," she pleaded, limping up and stopping him just before he reached out for the knob. Henry paused and waited as she panted, more from being excited than anything else.

"Wait, just wait," she told him, turning around to go to one of her drawers in the living room. She rummaged messily for quite a bit until she came up with a notepad and a pen. Hands shaking she hastily scribbled down words, numbers, an address. Nearly ripping it from the pad she limped back to where Henry was standing, waiting for her.

Eileen reached for his hand, pressing the yellow paper into it. His hand was rough, but warm. Without knowing it she didn't draw her fingers away from his, letting them linger continuously within them. Trembling ever so slightly she looked up at him, struggling to see his eyes through his thick mess of brown hair. Somehow he was messier now than he was in the hell worlds, even though his stubble wasn't as wild as before. His shirt was rumpled and limp as opposed to most dress shirts and his hair was floppy and untamed. Eileen wasn't attracted to such sloppiness, but such things were pushed from her mind as she stood in front of him, they were so close.

"You'll come visit, right?" she asked, stupidly getting fear caught in her voice. Henry only stared at her, like all the other times. It wasn't hard and cruel like someone would expect it to be, Henry was always soft and polite about it. It simply was the fact that he didn't really have any other reaction to give.

Eileen lightly panted in fear when he didn't answer her, "Henry…?"

The scruffy man nodded, giving a small smile—a smile she hadn't seen since he gave her flowers in the hospital. "I will," he confirmed softly. In his head he was dreading it, he hated going to another person's apartment and standing outside it like an idiot waiting for them to respond…or not. But if it was Eileen... she still looked exhausted and scared. Henry was still scared too, hands down, but even being locked in his own apartment would be nothing compared to being brutally attacked.

Eileen gave a strangled cry of relief and, whether on purpose or not, let her balance go and buried her face into Henry's chest. Henry stumbled back all of two inches before he hit the wall, his eyes wide and questioning. It felt just as awkward as the time she first greeted him from coming back from the hole after discovering she _couldn't_ see them. But then her bulky cast was in between them, and they had pulled away quickly from confusion. This time Eileen had balled up part of his shirt in her sweaty hands, the rest of her body pressing against him like a desperate child who had just fled from something terrifying to the arms of a parent.

_Terrifying like a monster_, he supposed.

_Or Walter Sullivan._

A slow reality dawned on Henry, and even though he possibly couldn't begin to imagine her fear there was at least enough empathy for him to raise his hands and enclose her in a gentle hug. Tiny sobs quietly escaped from Eileen's mouth, and she clenched his shirt harder. Henry let her cry, allowing one of his hands to softly rub her back. His fingers ran across the number 20, and she stiffened, shivering ever so slightly. A strange, dreamy sense swept over him and Henry lowered his head, burying his face in her hair as he kept his hand fingering her scar. Of one thing he was pleased—they were no longer fissures in her skin, just pink indentations. They were healing well despite the cost of perfection.

Time melted away for only a moment. Eileen could only stand there for so long wrapped in her friend's arms. The ticking of the clock burned her ears, reminding her that she should be heading somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

"Henry…I have to go." She whispered into his chest.

Henry took his arms carefully away from Eileen, wanting to let his fingers linger but disallowing himself to do so. He gazed down at her, his eyes unreturned by hers. Eileen stepped back and cradled her forehead in her delicate fingers, as if troubled by a disturbing headache.

"I'll…see you there then. At my new apartment," she muttered, wandering off to her bedroom to change into something that'd cover the scar. Henry watched silently until his hand found the door handle. He stumbled out into the hallway and into his room, the dreamy feeling suddenly gone. He waited there until Eileen had left.

When Eileen Galvin returned she found Henry gone, helping the movers that had come early for him. All that remained was a big, gorgeous picture of Toluca Lake in the sun lying against her doorframe.

* * *

_Long story short, I really like scars, and I wish Vincent never died.  
_

_Wait. This isn't SH3._

_Anyway, the part that's somewhat close to the ending but not quite got really weak on me, I don't like it as much. Oh well. It happens. My brain didn't come up with anything to fix it either._


End file.
